


BBC Musketeers Porn (Various)

by Exorin



Category: BBC Musketeers - Fandom, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Double Penetration, Foursome, Frottage, PWP, Pauldron Porn, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Snippets, Threesome, Tumblr Prompt, d'Artagnan in a dress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 14:09:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 11,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7535863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exorin/pseuds/Exorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Individual pieces brought over from Tumblr. Each is standalone and explicit (unless otherwise marked).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aramis/Porthos s01e05

Aramis is needy in the way he shoves Porthos, in the way his fingers fumble over belts and buckles that are usually undone with ease and practice- his fingertips clenching around shoulders, arms, muscles, anything, everything.

_Don’t do that again_ is pressed against Porthos’ skin, tongued along too many scars and too recent wounds, pushed into the corners of his mouth- wet and warm and still tart with the taste of wine.

_Will always come for you_ is bitten along his neck, dragged sharply over his nipples, and sucked into an angry bruise against his hip- marks against his skin that won’t fade for weeks, aches to remind him of this moment.

_You should know better_ is wrapped around his cock, spoken with the spread of lips and the opened throat- in the familiar wet heat of mouth, in the press of tongue and the fingertips digging into his thighs.

_Would never leave you to die_ is lost to the sound Porthos makes, hips jerked up and hands fisted into dark hair, shoving deep and coming hard down the easy slide of Aramis’ throat.


	2. Aramis/Porthos

Porthos likes to lean back when Aramis is kneeling in front of him- likes the view, the angle and likes to take it all in: the dark eyes, pupils blown, the flushed cheeks with lips spread wide and wrapped tight, hot and wet around the thick length of his cock sinking further into that easy, open throat.

He likes to fist his hands into the slight curl of Aramis’ hair- likes to pull just hard enough to demand attention right before he shoves far enough forward that Aramis’ nose presses against his skin and that opened throat clenches and adjusts around the wet head of his cock while Aramis breathes through his nose.

He loves the way Aramis looks up at him as his cock gets swallowed down, loves the filthy sucking sounds and the wetness that gathers at the corners of Aramis’ mouth.

Loves that final thrust and the way Aramis doesn’t push away at the last second, loves that Aramis stretches and presses his fingertips along the tense stretched-out line of his jaw before dragging him down and fitting their mouths together.


	3. Aramis/Porthos: The One With the Blindfold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not porn. Sorry, I feel like I've lied to you.

“How about we try a blindfold.” he says again, more than half drunk and already stumbling, leaning against Aramis in a way that can’t possibly be mistaken for casual- arm draped around his shoulders, head slumped down, face turned to the curve of Aramis’ neck, words against skin.

“You’ve already said Porthos,” Aramis laughs, barely catching the slur of his words before they’re out, “not tonight. Let’s get you home.”

.

He’s leading Porthos down the alleyway towards home when he’s pushed back against the crumbling bricks by the way Porthos shifts his weight, “No,” and there’s hot breath against his ear that makes him shiver, “you misunderstand.”

Porthos’ hand fisted into the dirt-caked white of his shirt, holding him still and Aramis’ words are stuck somewhere in his throat when a leather-gloved hand covers his eyes. 

“We should try a blindfold.” he says again, his words against Aramis’ mouth as he leans closer- breath smelling like tart wine and sweet melon.

Aramis exhales, shaky, frustratingly uneven and reaches out, blind, to grab at Porthos’ shoulders- to pull him just close enough to fit their lips together, too easy and so familiar with their drunken open mouthed kisses.

.

It’s sometime later when they separate, lips swollen, cheeks flushed and jaws raw from the scruff of their beards rubbing against each others skin and Porthos’ hand is still covering Aramis’ eyes when Aramis sighs, defeated, and says, “Yes. we should.”


	4. Aramis/Porthos: The One With Some Praise

There are bruises along Aramis’ throat, his biceps, wrists, his waist, the insides of his thighs- sucked red marks and yellowing fingerprints from where Porthos took of him (marked him, spread him wide and left him shaking).

Aramis doesn’t blame him for the violence (it is, after all, how he likes his women- so why not with Porthos too), understands that it comes from a kind of anger, frustration, and desperation that he himself is very familiar with.

Knew what he was in for from the way Porthos shoved at him, backed him up against the door and fitted their mouths together with a greedy sort of hunger- fingers fisted into the leather of his clothing, slipped under the belt slung across his chest. He’d known from the taste of too much wine on Porthos’ tongue, still wet and recent in the corners of his mouth (sweet in taste and bitter from the reasons he’d had to drink it).

And he’d let Porthos move him, push him, strip him down by pulling, by tearing (fastenings lost to the floorboards, cloth ripped), fingers grabbing just on the other side of too hard- teeth and nails and a desperate kind of taking.

Porthos’ body draped over his, leather-gloved hand around his throat until his neck was raw and red (voice cracked from gasping but body still aching for more) and Porthos’ voice had been low, half-growled beside his ear when he’d asked for permission- their bodies flush and the thick heat of his cock pressed against the curve of Aramis’ ass (and he’s never said no, but always the question is asked).

The fingers that had been warm and wet, slicked with oil and pressed two deep into his hole (bent and curved and pressing just so) had slipped free only to be quickly replaced by the wide leaking head of Porthos’ cock and just before he had slid into the tight heat of Aramis’ body is when Porthos’ lips had touched his ear, slid along the shell of it and whispered a breathy _good boy._


	5. Aramis/Porthos: The One With Comfort Blowjobs

It only takes Aramis a few moments to convince d’Artagnan and Athos that he should see to Porthos’ reopened wound on his own- leaving the others to keep a very, very close eye on Bonnaire (and perhaps mentioning to d’Artagnan that he should considering watching Athos as well).

Porthos is trembling by the time Aramis gets him to sit down and peels his shirt off and Aramis is unsure if it’s because half of his needlework has been torn open, or if it’s because of Bonnaire and his slave ships. Potentially both.

Porthos has his head bowed while Aramis works on restitching his wound, no need to knock him out again, he’s already worryingly silent and complacent, sitting still and barely flinching when the needle slides through his skin.

“I would have killed him.” He says, finally, his words just loud enough for Aramis to hear.

”I know Porthos,” his hands are on Porthos’ shoulders, thumbs pressing softly at the tense line of Porthos’ neck, “and he would have deserved it, but it’s not what we do.”

“Maybe it’s not what you do but…”

“Don’t finish that sentence. You’re a musketeer, one of us,” Aramis’ fingers clench briefly before he removes his hands, stepping around Porthos to kneel down in front of him, “and besides,” he says, looking up and smiling, leaning forward against Porthos’ knees, “I’d be a mess if I saw you hanged.”

Porthos makes a low noise against Aramis’ when the other musketeer stretches up to catch his mouth, a short exhale against the slow, soft brush of their lips and it’s quiet, barely whispered, but Porthos can feel the shape of Aramis’ words against his mouth, “Aramis, you know I don’t know Spanish.”

“No,” Aramis smiles and Porthos can feel that as well, “but I’ve learned that the sound relaxes you, and you are far too tense right now.”

Another brush of lips with the quick, fleeting touch of Porthos’ tongue swiped into his mouth, before he’s speaking, “You’re aware that there are other ways to get me relaxed.”

Aramis’ laugh is quick, just on the edge of too loud, “I was getting to that if you hadn’t noticed.” proving his point by sliding his hands further up Porthos’ thighs, his thumbs trailing along the inseams of Porthos’ breeches.

Porthos shifts forward a little on the chair, leaning down to kiss Aramis again, his back stretched and curved- it’s just another drag of lips together, a quick tease of teeth against his lower lip before Aramis’ hand is on his chest, pushing him away, gently, “You stay still. I’ll not have you tearing my needlework out again.”  
  
And he’d like to complain but he can suddenly feel Aramis’ breath, warm, through his breeches- mouth open against the inside of his thigh while Aramis’ fingers pull at the fastenings, undoing them with an obviously comfortable familiarity.

Porthos’ hands end up in Aramis’ hair, the slight curls of it threaded between his fingers while he’s looking down to where Aramis is pulling the ties loose and slipping his hand down between the fabric to wrap loosely around Porthos’ hardening cock.

Aramis glances up at him, holding his eyes while he licks his lips, slowly, before talking Porthos into his mouth, his tongue pressing up against the underside of Porthos’ cock, his cheeks hollowing out as he slides down until his nose is pressed up against Porthos’ pelvis and Porthos’ hands are fisting in his hair.

He can feel the stretch of Aramis’ lips around him and groans at the way Aramis’ throat tightens, clenches when he swallows (and he swallows often), breathing through his nose, his hands on Porthos’ thighs, fingertips digging in.

Porthos tilts his head back, closes his eyes, his hips stuttering up (as much as they can with Aramis holding him still)- pushing his cock impossibly deeper into Aramis’ opened throat.

And Aramis takes him easily, pulls himself back until just the head of Porthos’ cock is between his lips- his tongue circling the tip, pressing flat along the slit, the strong, slightly salty taste of precome warm on his tongue.

He holds him there, looking up and waiting for Porthos to glance down before sliding down the thick length, all the way to the wide base- Porthos cursing under his breath and twisting his fingers just tight enough into Aramis’ hair to make a point.

Aramis sucks hard and swallows again- there’s spit gathering at the corners of his mouth and Porthos is groaning, his cock wet, heavy and spilling against the back of Aramis’ throat- hips slowing, riding the last waves of orgasm in the damp heat of Aramis’ mouth.

“Still tense?” Aramis says, leaning back on his haunches and wiping his smiling mouth with the back of a still-gloved hand.

“More like tired.”

And Aramis stands with a small nod, still smiling and moving towards the door.

Porthos catches his arm on the way by, looking up at him, questioning without words- offering.

“I shouldn’t keep you from your beauty rest,” he leans down and presses his mouth, briefly, to Porthos’ shoulder, just above his restitched wound, “you really do need quite a bit of it.”


	6. Aramis/Porthos: The One With Spanish

Porthos is learning Spanish- not on purpose, but through repetition. 

By the way Aramis sounds when he’s bent at the waist with his legs spread, thighs trembling and fists clenched into anything he can get his hands on. 

And the gasps and streams of words that fall easily from his parted lips, Porthos’ hips pushed forward until they’re flush against Aramis’ ass, his cock deep and throbbing inside the stretch and heat of Aramis’ hole. 

From the sputtered cursing when Porthos’ grabs his hips and holds him at a distance, with just the head of his cock still inside and short, teasing, shallow thrusts that make Aramis groan. 

Foreign words muffled against the bed, Aramis’ head shoved down with Porthos’ fingers fisted into the slight curls of his dark hair.

Whispered, out of breath language when they’re a mess and tangle of limbs wrapped up in each other- sticky with sweat and spit and come.


	7. Aramis/Porthos: The One With Drunk Frottage

They’re drunk- fingers fumbling, failing at opening fastenings, at undoing laces, the two of them pressed up against each other in the shadows of the night, leaning up against a crumbling brick wall in some dark alleyway between their starting point and home. 

Porthos is laughing, breath coming out in short, quick spurts of amusement, his mouth moving along the corner of Aramis’ lips- wet, drunken kisses that leave Aramis’ mouth red, swollen, damp.

Aramis’ hands on Porthos’ waist, low on his hips- slipping between the press of their bodies, fingers curling around the line of Porthos’ cock- hard and wide and obvious, straining up against the leather of his breeches.

And Porthos groans against his mouth, arches up into the tightening clench of Aramis’ hand touching him through his pants- he can feel Aramis’ smile against his lips, can feel Aramis’ cock shoved up against his thigh- just as hard, just as desperate for friction as his own.

It takes some more fumbling to get his leg shifted and shoved up between Aramis’ thighs, reaching his hands around to grab at Aramis’ ass, to pull his body down against him.

They’re both needy, rutting in the dark, Aramis’ hips pushing down against the heat of Porthos’ thigh, Porthos’ jerking up against the way Aramis’ palm is rubbing his cock through the leather. 

And by the end of it, they’re both gasping into each others mouths- cursing and laughing and coming underneath all their layers.


	8. Aramis/Porthos: The One Where Porthos is a Show Off

They’ve barely made it back to the barracks before Aramis is right in Porthos’ space, pushing him back until he has him, back flat to the wall with his fingers fisted into the blue of Porthos’ shirt and his mouth dragging over Porthos’ lips.

“Showoff.” he says, presses the word between swipes of his tongue- fits his body flush to Porthos’, heat coming off both of them in waves and Porthos laughs against the slide of Aramis’ lips, puts his hands on the thin curve of Aramis’ waist and pulls him closer.

“Wouldn’t do it if it didn’t get you so worked up.” he grins, proves his point by flipping their positions and caging Aramis down, hitching his knee up between the spread of Aramis’ thighs until he can feel the weight of Aramis’ hard cock pressing down against him.

“Tease.” Aramis groans, tilting his head back against the wall to let Porthos’ trace his lips down the line of his jaw, his mouth open against the juncture between his neck and shoulder- sucking a mark just underneath the hem of his loose-hanging shirt.

“You love it.” is whispered against his throat, Porthos’ fingers tugging open the fastenings on the front of his trousers, even as he shifts his leg- building friction against the slight jerk of Aramis’ hips down against him.

“Liar.” and it’s barely a word, half gasped as Porthos’ bites and sucks his way along Aramis’ collarbone, his fingertips dipping just slightly underneath the waist of Aramis’ breeches and Aramis can feel the shape of Porthos’ smile against his skin- knows that he himself is grinning while his fingers clench at Porthos’ shoulders.

“Let’s just see about that, shall we?”

Aramis’ breath hitches, his exhale a low, shaky laugh as Porthos’ hand finds it’s way into his breeches, his long fingers wrapping tightly around the wide base of Aramis’ cock and stroking him once, palming the hard, dampened tip until Aramis is making quiet half-broken sounds at the back of his throat.


	9. Aramis/Porthos: The One Attached to Pond's Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for this: http://ponderosa121.tumblr.com/post/80141009563/oh-hey-some-portamis-before-i-crash-day-one-of

Aramis’ legs hitch up higher around Porthos’ waist, his knees squeezing tightly against the other man’s sides, his cock trapped between the press of their bodies- hard and thick and dragging sticky lines of precome against both of their stomachs.

And Porthos is pushing into Aramis’ tight, oil and finger-spread hole- sinking slowly into the heat of him while Aramis’ fingers drag down Porthos’ back, his head tilted back, neck stretched out, and his breath falling out from between his parted lips in soft little gasps.

Aramis has his eyes squeezed shut so he can’t see the way Porthos watches him, eyes near-black with his pupils blown wide, his lips spread into a grin, “Mm, yeah. C'mon Aramis.” he groans, his hips jerking forward, cock shoved full and deep into Aramis.

And Aramis’ back curves, arching beneath him- his breath hitched, heart drumming loud against his ribcage, his fingertips digging into the line of Porthos’ shoulders- nails leaving marks that will last for days.

They move together, hips stuttering, Porthos’ cock fucking into him- his own rubbing between the friction of their bodies, building quick, sudden- and Porthos’ bites down against Aramis’ neck when he comes, thick and warm and deep inside of Aramis’ hole.

Porthos’ hand pushing between them, his fingers wrapping around the thick, reddened, desperate width of Aramis’ leaking cock- jerking him fast and stealing the breath from Aramis’ lungs with the press of their mouths together- Aramis shouting against his lips and spilling between them.


	10. Aramis/d'Artagnan: The One Where d'Art Has A Shiny New Pauldron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was the beginning of my obsession with d'Artagnan's pauldron. There's more.

Aramis has a hand curled around d’Artagnan’s hip and one pressed firmly over the boy’s mouth, his hips shoved forward, cock sinking slowly, deeply into d’Artagnan’s finger-stretched hole- his lips pressed against d’Artagnan’s ear, breath hitched, voice low, shushing him.

And d’Artagnan is breathing through his nose, making muffled sounds against the heat of Aramis’ palm- his hands pressed against the wall, using it for leverage to push himself back against the thick, wide shove of Aramis’ cock.

Aramis drags his lips along d’Artagnan’s neck, works his way along the curve of bare skin with his tongue and teeth until he reaches the pauldron still present over d’Artagnan’s right shoulder and he makes sure d’Artagnan can see him when he presses his mouth against the Fleur De Lis.

d’Artagnan gasps, whimpers, groans, his mouth opened against Aramis’ hand, hips pushing back hard enough that Aramis’ cock fills him up right to the hilt in one motion- Aramis’ hand on his waist slips forward, his fingers moving to wrap around the heavy base of d’Artagnan’s cock and stroking firmly.

Aramis smiles against the leather, grinding his hips forward as far as he can before pulling back, slowly, leaving only the tip of his cock inside the tight heat of d’Artagnan’s hole- he waits, watching d’Artagnan’s expression become frustrated before fucking his hips forward hard enough to shove the boy’s body up against the wall fully.

d’Artagnan makes another noise, loud enough to only barely be silenced by the grip of Aramis’ hand over his mouth- his cock jerks against Aramis’ palm as he comes over Aramis’ knuckles, his whole body tensing, his hole clenching around the shove of Aramis’ cock.

And Aramis bites down against the leather strap that holds d’Artagnan’s pauldron in place- pushing his hips forward and sinking his cock into d’Artagnan, filling him with a final shove.


	11. Athos/Porthos/Aramis: The One With The Braided Bandanna Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... there was an episode where it looked like Porthos had a bandanna or a braid or something? Anyway, this is what happened.

Aramis’ hands clench into fists at his sides, briefly twitch to reach out, to touch Porthos’ shoulders, face, head, anything at all- to get some kind of grip on the man kneeling in front of him- to get a hold of Porthos, who’s lips are stretched, spread wide around the head of his cock. Wet and warm and just the right amount of tight.

But still, he knows better.

Because Athos is standing just behind Porthos, looking at Aramis and holding his eyes- steady, calm, in control. Porthos’ braided bandanna wrapped around his fist several times- pulling just tight enough to force Porthos’ head back, to angle his mouth, his neck, to expertly make space for Aramis’ cock to push completely in to the back of his throat.

And Aramis moans, groans out desperate words of please and more and yes- half in English, half Spanish while letting his head drop back against the wall, his fingertips struggling against the brick for purchase.

Athos doesn’t let go of the braid as he moves to kneel down behind Porthos, just jerks his hand until Porthos’ head is resting on his shoulder- his mouth against Porthos’ ear, his free hand slipped around the others waist, unhooking fastenings with an easy kind of confidence.

He can’t hear what Athos is saying but instead can feel it in the way Porthos grunts and swallows hard around the weight of his cock- and when Aramis finally manages to look down, Athos has gotten his hand down the front of Porthos’ breeches- he can feel the way Porthos’ hips jerk up by the slide of mouth around him.

“Aramis.” Athos says- just the name, the barest hint of unsteadiness in his voice. He watches as Aramis’ body tenses, feels the quick stutter of his hips driving forward, pushing his cock to the back of Porthos’ mouth before coming down the spread hole of Porthos’ throat.

And Porthos pulls his head back gasping for breath, Aramis’ spent cock slipping from his mouth- his own cock throbbing against Athos’ palm, leaking wet from the tip and he’s half incoherent, his words a jumbled mess of filth and names, swearing loudly when he comes.


	12. Athos/Porthos/Aramis:  Double Penetration

Porthos is already pushed into the tight, clenching heat of Athos’ hole- Athos with his legs spread wide around Porthos’ waist, his forehead pressed against Porthos’ shoulder, breath hitched and his voice is quiet, barely there at all when he gasps, “More.”

And Aramis has one hand is on his lower back, the other with fingers coated in oil, slicked and stroking up along the inside of Athos’ thigh, hesitant, “You’re sure?”

Aramis doesn’t need to hear the answer- can see the yes in the way Athos’ body pushes back, in the way his hands fist into the sheets below Porthos’ and in the groan that’s muffled against the other Musketeer’s skin.

And Athos is so incredibly tight, clenching around the slow push of Aramis’ finger sinking into him alongside the wide, thick shove of Porthos’ cock already buried to the hilt.

One, two, three deep and Athos’ voice is cracked, low whining moans hidden against the curve of Porthos’ neck, breathless and needy- Porthos’ hands stroke up Athos’ sides, his mouth against the other’s ear, “I bet Aramis could fill you up even more.”

Athos’ entire body is trembling by the time Aramis pulls his fingers slowly free from the confining heat of Athos’ hole and he drags his fingertips along the stretch, slipping one back in just to feel the warmth of Athos’ again.

More oil is poured over Aramis’ hand, fisted down his cock until he’s wet and dripping- the tip of his cock nudged up against the tight, already filled, ring of muscle and Porthos stills entirely underneath Athos- sliding his hands down to grab Athos’ ass, holding him open.

It’s a slow, drawn out push- Aramis’ cock stretching Athos wider, inching in alongside the thick, hard length of Porthos with Aramis’ hand wrapped firm around the base of his cock- lining himself up, pressing in, his other slippery and pressed down against the small of Athos’ back.

Aramis leans over the bent, curved body of the other Musketeer- his mouth touching the back of Athos’ neck, then the shell of his ear, “Is this what you needed?” he says, whispers it against him, smiles when he hears Porthos talking against Athos’ other side, “We’re gonna stretch you out, make sure you feel empty when there’s only one cock in you.”

Athos is shaking now, face pressed against Porthos’ neck, mouth opened and gasping against him- his hips moving in shallow, slow pushes back against the two men holding still inside him, “Would you two stop talking.” he groans without lifting his head- the words muffled against Porthos’ skin, “Give me more.”

Porthos laughs and it’s breathless, “You heard him.” while catching Aramis’ eyes over the bend of Athos’ shoulder before he’s pulling his hips back and rocking forward again and   
Aramis’ hands end up on Athos’ hips, oiled and slippery and grabbing for purchase- moving his hips almost opposite of Porthos’, their cocks slipping against each other inside the tight clenching heat of Athos’ hole.

And Athos is almost whining, his voice shattered and mouth dry from gasping and he shifts his hips to take them both impossibly deeper, “More,” he says and it’s nothing but a low needy noise, “I’m not going to break.”

They move together, Aramis and Porthos, pushing into the stretch of Athos until his body is shaking, back curved, arched between them- his cock wedged between him and Porthos, hard and wet and smearing sticky lines of precome against both their stomachs.

Porthos comes first, his cock pulsing inside Athos’ body, spilling warm and thick against the shove of Aramis still moving inside of Athos and when he slips free he hears the groan against his neck, feels the way Aramis shoves into Athos- twice as hard, filling up the space, fucking in to him.

And Porthos manages to get his hand between the press of his and Athos’ bodies, his fingers fisting Athos’ cock loosely, the other Musketeer rocking his hips up against the curl of Porthos’ hand.

Aramis shoves into Athos’ body, hips stuttering, cock jerking and filling Athos’ hole up with come, wet and thick and leaking down between the spread of his legs- and Athos’ hands end up fisted into the sheets, his teeth pressing marks into Porthos’ shoulder, muffling the sound of his broken, needy moans as he spills over Porthos’ still-stroking fingers.


	13. Athos/Porthos/Aramis/d'Artagnan: Spitroasting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On Tumblr this was broken up into five pieces, but we're just going to put them together into one on AO3.

**ONE:**

Athos is bent at the waist, Porthos’ hands on his hips, steadying him- his legs kicked apart wide, spread, with Porthos sinking easily into his finger-stretched, oil-slicked hole. His thighs trembling, cock hanging heavy and hard between them, leaking wet and yet untouched.

His own fingers are curled around the jut of Aramis’ hips, struggling for balance, mouth opened and lips spread wide, glistening and damp with spit gathering at the corners and Aramis’ cock pushing between them.

Aramis’ has one hand fisted in his hair, holding tight, the other wrapped carefully around his jaw and he can feel the push of himself in that mouth along with the tight clench of Athos’ throat every time he swallows hard and moans around the wide shove of Aramis’ cock.

His eyes are closed, breathing heavy and strained around the push and shove of both Aramis and Porthos, one on either side and just completely taking him apart, fitting into him until he’s not his own anymore- until they’re part of him.

And it feels so, so good to lose control for once- to put himself completely and utterly into the hands of his brothers, the only men he’d trust to put him back together after pulling him to pieces.

 

**TWO:**

d'Artagnan’s hand is on the door, pushed open just enough to see inside- just enough for him to witness the way Porthos’ hips slam forward, his cock disappearing into Athos with a wet, slick sound, and

he can’t look away.

Athos’ body is rocked forward, his heavy cock swinging between his thighs, his arms stretched out in front of him, his palms cupped around Aramis’ ass cheeks as Porthos’ thrust sends him forward- Aramis’ cock sliding down his throat until his nose is pressed up against Aramis’ pelvis, and

he should leave.

Porthos’ has one hand still on Athos’ hip, his fingertips clenching, leaving marks in their wake, his head tilted back, mouth opened and groaning loudly- his other hand slipping around Athos’ waist, moving to fist the thick base of Athos’ cock and wasting no time before stroking him, hard and fast and,

he should really really leave.

Athos’ thighs are shaking, his whole body trembling- moans muffled and swallowed alongside the push and shove of Aramis’ cock sliding in and out of his mouth and Aramis is holding his jaw, fisting his hair and,

looking right at d'Artagnan.

 

**THREE:**

“Come here.” Aramis says, his voice low, husky, breathless and Porthos turns to look toward the opened door where d'Artagnan is standing- hand still braced against the wood, mouth hanging open, face flushed.

Athos’ eyes are opened now, Aramis’ hand on his throat- tilting Athos’ head just enough for him to see d'Artagnan, eyes widening briefly before being squeezed shut again, Aramis’ cock still balls deep between his lips.

“Come here.” he says again, words broken with a groan, Athos purposefully swallowing hard around him- Porthos laughs, his hand slowing along the thick length of Athos’ cock, hips still rolling forward in small, shallow thrusts.

d'Artagnan almost trips over himself, stumbling into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him- he makes it close enough to the three of them before there are hands on his shoulders, both Aramis’ and Porthos’, gently pushing him down to his knees beside Athos’ bent and trembling body.

Aramis’ hand slipping into his hair, grabbing a fistful while Porthos’ fingers trail along his jaw with the hand still wrapped around Athos’ heavy cock stroking him just in front of d'Artagnan’s mouth.

“d'Artagnan,” Porthos’ voice is close to a growl and d'Artagnan looks up at him, his eyes half-lidded and his lips parted, tongue dipping out to dampen them just before Porthos groans, “suck.”

 

**FOUR:**

Athos’ entire body tenses at the first touch of d'Artagnan’s lips to the head of his cock, the boy’s breath hot and damp against him- at the same time he can feel the throbbing weight of Aramis in his mouth and swallows, exhaling through his nose his fingers clenching on Aramis’ flanks just as Aramis curses in Spanish, his hips jutting forward, cock spilling thick and warm down the slide of Athos’ throat.

Porthos laughs, his arm wrapping around Athos’ chest and pulling him up, drawing him back against him while Aramis slips free from the wet heat of Athos’ mouth, stumbling back before regaining his balance to lean against the edge of a table- Porthos’ mouth is against Athos’ ear, his words low but still loud enough for d'Artagnan to hear, “Good boy.”

Athos is already moaning from Porthos’ words when d'Artagnan finally leans up on his haunches, spreading his lips to take in the pre-come drenched head of Athos’ cock- Athos’ hand lands on his head, fingers threading through his hair to get a hold, he looks down at d'Artagnan, his hips rocking tentatively forward, sinking slowly into the warmth of the boy’s mouth.

Porthos stops moving, stills within the heat of Athos’ slicked, clenching hole, almost vibrating with the effort of it but waiting- he looks down over Athos’ shoulder, watches the wide length of Athos’ cock slowly disappearing between reddened lips, feels the way Athos’ body trembles against him when d'Artagnan makes a choked noise around the thick base of Athos’ cock.

Aramis moves to kneel beside d'Artagnan, one hand on the boy’s hip, the other pressed very softly against the stretch of his neck, “Slowly,” he says, breathes the words against the shell of d'Artagnan’s ear, “breathe through your nose, relax.”

Athos moans above them, reaching out with his free hand to touch Aramis’ face, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small smile when Aramis’ hand leaves d'Artagnan’s waist to curl around Athos’ fingers instead.

Porthos’ hips twitch forward, starting again to roll with shallow thrusts into Athos’ body, groaning low- forcing himself to move slowly, with great effort, trying to not push Athos’ cock straight down to the back of d'Artagnan’s throat with a hard shove.

And neither Athos nor Porthos can hear what Aramis is saying to d'Artagnan- but Athos can feel the way d'Artagnan’s throat opens to allow his cock to slide fully into the heat of the boy’s mouth and he let’s out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Athos is almost whimpering by the end of it, the slow tentative slide of d'Artagnan’s mouth building to easy, long glides instead as he gets braver, his lips stretched at the corners and the slick wet sounds of Athos’ cock slipping quick and hard, in and out of his mouth making Athos weak at the knees.

Athos’ hips stutter forward, fingers tangling through and pulling at d'Artagnan’s hair and Aramis is saying something that makes the boy moan and swallow hard, taking the hot, thick pour of Athos.

d'Artagnan pulls away, come dripping from his lips, just in time for Porthos to shove into Athos’ spent body hard enough to bend them both over, his mouth against Athos’ shoulder- biting down to keep from shouting.

 

**FIVE:**

He’s leaning back against Aramis, the other mans arms around him, fingers pulling at the fastenings of his breeches and d'Artagnan’s hips are rolling upwards, his cock hard and aching- with the taste of Athos still on his lips and at the back of his throat.

“I want you to open yourself up for them.” Aramis says against his ear, low, and smiles when he hears d'Artagnan’s breath hitch and fall into a moan, “Have you ever done this?” he asks, dragging his teeth along the shell of d'Artagnan’s ear.

The boy shakes his head, trembling against Aramis when the words “I’ll teach you.” are pressed against his skin- Porthos is crouched in front of the two of them, watching them both with partial amusement while Athos sits, half slumped down, boneless, spent, his eyes half-lidded and locked on the corner of d'Artagnan’s mouth where there are still wet lines of his own come gathered.

d'Artagnan lifts his hips at Aramis’ insistance, his breeches being pushed down his thighs until he can kick them off himself- naked from the waist down, his cock standing between his legs, swollen and hard and damp at the tip.

“Porthos.” is all Aramis says before Porthos slides an already half-empty flask of oil towards him- d'Artagnan can feel the way his heartbeat picks up in his chest, can feel the pump of it in his veins as Aramis takes his hand and splashes the warm liquid onto his fingers.

Aramis’ fingers are tangled with d'Artagnan’s when his hand is pulled forward, the two of them wrapping their joined hands around the wide base of d'Artagnan’s cock- oiled and slippery and sliding up the full length of him until d'Artagnan makes a noise in his throat, Aramis’ mouth still hot against his ear, untangling their hands and when it’s just d'Artagnan’s hand circling his own cock, Aramis says, “Touch yourself.”

It doesn’t take long before d'Artagnan is taking small, gasping breaths, moans falling from between his parted lips and he wants to close his eyes but Aramis has told him to leave them open, to watch the stroke of his own hand along his cock.

And Aramis reaches forward, touches d'Artagnan’s free hand with his own- drags the boys fingers down between the spread of his legs, their fingertips dragging through the oil that’s leaked down from the slide of d'Artagnan’s hand on his cock and they press together at the clenched ring of muscle, just a teasing nudge at his hole.

d'Artagnan makes a noise, a whimper from the back of his throat, the pulse of his cock beating hard against the palm of his hand- at the sound Porthos moves forward from where he’s crouched, kneeling instead between the slight spread of d'Artagnan’s legs, his hands sliding over the bend of knee, up just enough to push them further apart.

He can feel the way Aramis smiles in the way his mouth curves against his skin- his legs being opened, spread wide with Porthos’ thumbs stroking along the inside of his thighs, “Go on,” Porthos says, looking at the way d'Artagnan’s fingertip is pressed up against his own hole, “we’ve got you.”

And d'Artagnan trembles and exhales with a shaky sigh, his cock jumping against his palm at the sink of his finger up to his first knuckle, Aramis breathing words of encouragement against his ear while dripping more oil between the spread of his thighs.

“Slow. Easy.” and Athos’ voice makes d'Artagnan look up, makes his cheeks redden with how he must look- being opened by Porthos, held by Aramis, his cock hard and glistening wet, his finger slipping into his hole.

And he remembers how Athos’ looked between the two others, wonders if he’ll look the same and he has to grip the base of his cock, hard, to stop himself from coming at the thought.

“You should help him Porthos.”

Porthos looks at Athos, his eyebrow raised, “You think so?” he says and turns back to look at d'Artagnan, “is that what you’d like?” and the boy’s thighs are shaking underneath of his hands, mouth opened, cheeks and chest flushed- he makes a noise, just a broken whimper of a sound, his fingertips clenching around his cock.

“I think that’s a yes.” Aramis laughs, low, against the curve of d'Artagnan’s neck- his fingers continuing to open and remove d'Artagnan’s shirts.

Porthos is grinning when he leans forward, lifting d'Artagnan’s legs to rest over his shoulders, holding himself up on his elbows and d'Artagnan is already squirming the moment Porthos’ breath drags over his oiled hole.

d'Artagnan’s body shakes in Aramis’ arms, his head falling back against Aramis’ shoulder, breath becoming nothing but little helpless gasps and shattered moans as Porthos’ mouth works between his legs- tongue pressed between the shove of his fingers, two deep and working d'Artagnan open further with every push and twist and flick of his tongue.

And Athos just watches- watches the way d'Artagnan’s toes curl with every movement of Porthos’ jaw and the way the boy arches when Aramis’ hand replaces his own around his cock, Aramis’ mouth against his ear and Athos can’t hear the words said, but knows what they sound like- knows that mix of English and French and Spanish as well as he knows the sound of his own voice.

“d'Artagnan.” Athos says, his own voice hoarse from earlier and when d'Artagnan meet his eyes there’s a stutter of hips and a long, low, shattered moan- d'Artagnan’s cock twitching against Aramis’ palm, jerking, spilling wet and hot over his stomach and Aramis’ knuckles.


	14. Athos/Porthos/Aramis/d'Artagnan: The One With Strip Poker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (This is the first Musketeers fic I ever wrote. It was for an ask)

Of course Porthos is winning- leaning back with his chair two legs off the ground, fully clothed while the other three sit in various states of undress:

Athos in his boots and a loose once-white shirt (now dirt coated from the events of the day) that covers just enough of himself to still leave something to the imagination.

d’Artagnan in just his breeches, the rest of his cloth and leather discarded carelessly around his chair, his boots beside him, hat laying on top.

And Aramis who’s sitting comfortably, legs spread and indifferent to the fact that he is wearing just his hat (placed tactfully in his lap).

It’s d’Artagnan who says something first (who does something first)- the other two content to let the game unfold (the game of Porthos’ own creation in which he is obviously cheating)- throwing his cards down and scowling across the table.

Aramis is already laughing when Athos tries to grab d’Artagnan by the scruff of his neck to keep the young musketeer from jumping the table (tries and fails). Porthos’ chair tips off balance when d’Artagnan lunges and he ends up sprawled over Porthos- hands braced on the ground on either side of Porthos’ head and knees around his waist.

It’s not until he’s pressed down against Porthos that he realizes he didn’t actually have a plan after the initial tussle but Porthos is warm underneath him and the way Porthos’ is laughing affectionately makes him tremble just enough for d’Artagnan’s body to take notice.

When Porthos stops chuckling there’s nothing but silence and the sound of their breath between them and it’s Porthos who reaches up to fist his hand in d’Artagnan’s hair and drag him down, Porthos who fits their mouths together and holds d’Artagnan against him with a hand held low on his back- shifting their hips together until d’Artagnan makes a sound against his lips.

There’s a laugh behind the two of them that sounds like Aramis and it’s quickly followed by Athos commenting on it being about time.

It’s not until he feels another hand on his back that d’Artagnan realizes that the other two have gotten up and moved over to where he and Porthos are- he pulls back, his lips swollen and mouth tasting like wine, half-breathless and then Athos is filling the space just left by Porthos.

Athos’ fingers hold his chin, keeping d’Artagnan’s head tilted up just slightly, tongue slipping between his lips with an easy kind of confidence, pressing deeper and swiping into the corners of d’Artagnan’s mouth.

Porthos’ hands move to d’Artagnan’s waist and he holds him still while pushing their bodies together, the thick line of his cock noticeably hard and shoved up against d’Artagnan in a way that makes the boy moan into the heat of Athos’ mouth.

d’Artagnan can hear Aramis say his name, soft and low against his ear just before there are lips against his neck, trailing over his collarbone and down his chest to circle round one of his nipples- the drag of teeth makes his back arch, makes his breath catch.

Porthos shifts underneath him, leans up on his elbows and joins Aramis in making d’Artagnan moan against Athos’ mouth.

There’s fingers working the fastenings of his breeches open and d’Artagnan has no idea who’s they are- just knows that his cock is straining up against them and that he’d very much like to be freed, and touched- he’s half desperate for contact, his words a mess of groans and gasps.

He can hear Aramis’ breath hitch, can feel the shuddered moan against his chest and pulls away from Athos’ mouth, his lips swollen from kissing, to look over at the others-

Porthos’ is half sitting up, his head turned to the side and resting against Aramis’ thigh and d’Artagnan can feel his own cock throbbing as he watches Porthos take Aramis into his mouth, down to the hilt until Porthos’ is visibly swallowing, throat clenching.

It’s only when Athos says his name that d’Artagnan manages to look away, manages to focus long enough to realize that Athos has his left hand fisted around Porthos’ cock, just loose enough that Porthos is the one controlling the slide of it with the slow rise and fall of his hips- with Athos’ right hand finally slipping down the opened fronts of d’Artagnan’s breeches to draw out his cock, joining his hands to lay Porthos’ and d’Artagnan’s thick, hard lengths together in a way that makes d’Artagnan groan and arch, thrusting into the tight circle of Athos’ fingers while Porthos moans around the push of Aramis in his mouth.

d’Artagnan leans back, arching, mouth opened slightly and gasping, his eyes closed- or, at least closed until there’s a hand over his, Aramis’ hand, moving them both together to slide up Athos’ bare thigh and under the trim of his hanging shirt, fingers threaded together to wrap around the heat of Athos’ cock.

And it’s the sound that Athos makes- the half broken, completely desperate sound that makes d’Artagnan tense up, feeling his pulse hammer through his entire body as he comes over Athos’ fingers and Porthos’ cock and stomach, Porthos jerking up and following him over the edge.

Aramis’ face is pressed to the curve of his neck, breath and foreign words against d’Artagnan’s skin, his hips stuttering, free hand dropping to touch Porthos’ throat- just softly, just for contact, and d’Artagnan can tell that he’s looking down (even though he can’t see his eyes) because Porthos is looking up at him with what could only be a smile spread around Aramis’ cock, swallowing the very moment Aramis groans, shutters, and bites down on d’Artagnan’s collarbone.

Athos’ hips are lifting up, his cock wet with precome, slippery between Aramis’ and d’Artagnan’s fingers when Porthos reaches out to join the two of them- fisting him tightly at the wide, thick base while the other two slide their hands quick up along the length of him.

And he’s gasping, squeezing his eyes shut, his body rocking with the motions, blood rushing through him, heart beating hard against his ribcage and it’s a jerk, a stutter, a broken moan before he’s coming over their fingers.

They end up collapsed together on the floor, heartbeats slowing, evening out.

It’s Porthos who starts up first, laughing under his breath- Aramis joins next, looking at d’Artagnan from where he’s half laying on Porthos’ stomach, Athos has his fingers threaded through d’Artagnan’s hair- looking at his other two musketeers and shaking his head, smiling… and d’Artagnan’s not entirely sure what’s so amusing- but right now, well, he doesn’t much care.


	15. Athos/Porthos/Aramis/d'Artagnan: The One With The Celebration

He’s barely unpacked when the door to his new quarters in the barracks swings open and Athos, Porthos, and Aramis step in- arms full with bottles of wine.

“We felt like a celebration was in order.” Porthos grins, tossing one of the bottles directly to d'Artagnan while he and Aramis arrange the rest of them on a small table.

“A well deserved celebration.” Athos crosses the room to d'Artagnan, the corner of his mouth pulled up into a smile- he claps his hand on the young Musketeers shoulder, “Very well deserved.”

.

They’re well into their cups a few hours later- the four of them sitting close to each other, Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan all laughing and swapping stories, histories, while Athos watches quietly, amused.

They’re on the subject of conquests when Porthos asks Athos to speak of his, he declines of course, saying only that the women of his life are his own to keep but d'Artagnan catches his eye for a moment, knowingly concerned before the topic of conversation is changed and they go back to drinking.

.

It’s halfway to dawn when d'Artagnan finds himself wedged between the heat of Aramis and Porthos- one on either side of him, a warm mouth along the tanned curve of his neck, a hand placed high up on his thigh, mumbled, drunken words about bonds and brotherhood pressed against his skin.

But it’s Athos who first takes his mouth- wet with wine and tongue sweeping easily between the part of d'Artagnan’s lips, his fingers fisted into the cotton of d'Artagnan’s shirt and pulling at him with a desperation that the newest Musketeer has rarely felt and barely seen.

.

They’re nothing more than a tangle of limbs when dawn breaks- d'Artagnan’s hair sticking to his forehead, his face, his right leg hitched up high over Athos’ left shoulder with Athos’ cock sinking easily into the heat of his stretched hole, the two of them a mess of sounds.

Aramis has a hand on d'Artagnan’s cock, fisted tightly around the base and holding him back, keeping him just at the very edge of coming- Porthos has left marks with his fingertips and his mouth, left them all along d'Artagnan’s collarbone, his chest, the jut of his hips.

His thighs are trembling, his legs spread open and cock hard and red and leaking precome along his stomach in sticky lines- Athos’ hips jerk forward and d'Artagnan has stopped being able to tell where he ends and Athos begins.

.

It’s almost midday and d'Artagnan’s head is on Porthos’ chest, listening to the still evening out drum of Porthos’ heartbeat against his ear- Aramis is curled up behind him, arms wound around d'Artagnan’s midsection, face pressed to the curve of d'Artagnan’s neck.

Athos is standing in the doorway with bottles of water (and some more of wine), leaning against the frame and simply watching the other three with a fondness that reaches his eyes and makes d'Artagnan’s chest tighten when he finally notices.

.

By afternoon d'Artagnan has Athos beneath him, his fingers and mouth pulling down each and every one of Athos’ defenses and rendering him incoherent with nothing but shaky breaths and quiet moans slipping from his throat.

Aramis and Porthos are near enough to touch the other two, but keep back- content to just watch the way Athos arches beneath the youngest of them when d'Artagnan’s fingers twist just so, oiled and pressed three deep into the tight circle of Athos’ hole.

And d'Artagnan’s other hand is tangled up in the ever-present chain around Athos’ neck- pulling him up by it to crush their mouths together.

.

d'Artagnan’s body aches by the second night- the four of them curled around each other, constant grounding touches keeping them tied together and he’s never felt like he’s belonged anywhere as much as he belongs here, with Athos, Aramis, and Porthos- his Brothers.


	16. Athos/Porthos/Aramis/d'Artagnan: The One With Sloppy Seconds (and thirds)

d'Artagnan is already almost incoherent by the time Porthos slides out of him, marks on his hips from where Porthos’ fingers dug into his flesh, chaffing on the back of his neck from the way Porthos’ beard and stubble scratched across his skin while his mouth was opened, his teeth dragging along the line of d'Artagnan’s shoulders.

He’s bent over at the waist, his thighs trembling from keeping himself up, legs spread wide- kicked apart earlier, just before Porthos had pushed well-oiled fingers, two deep, into his hole to work him open- d'Artagnan’s fingers fisted into the sweat-damp sheets, his forehead bowed against the mattress, breathing slowly and deeply to keep from gasping.

There’s only a moment reprieve, half a minute to catch his breath before hands move in to replace the ones just removed, fingertips tracing along the reddened marks of Porthos’ fingers, softer, more gentle, and d'Artagnan shivers from the touch, sighing out Aramis’ name.

It’s easy, so easy for Aramis to shove into him in one long push, his hard cock getting wet and oiled and slicked from the come that’s leaking from d'Artagnan’s stretched, spread hole, dripping down the insides of his thighs.

One of Aramis’ hands is on d'Artagnan’s shoulder, the other wrapped low around his waist, fingers curled tightly around the wide base of d'Artagnan’s cock- Aramis’ chest pressed flush to his back and hips moving in slow, shallow thrusts. His mouth close to d'Artagnan’s ear, breathing heavy, Spanish words falling from his lips as whispers.

It’s a slow build and the sounds that d'Artagnan makes has Aramis’ cock throbbing inside him, these half desperate, keening whimpers that are almost lost to the sheets when he bites down on the fabric to keep them from becoming loud, unstoppable things.

He can feel the stutter in Aramis’ hips just before Aramis’ pulls back, his cock spilling warm and thick against the pucker of his hole, along the curve of his ass, the backs of his thighs.

And his knees feel like they’re about to give out- buckling underneath of him with only the mattress keeping him even vaguely upright- when there are hands on him, lifting him up onto the bed fully, turning him onto his back and brushing his sweat-sticky hair from his forehead.

“Athos.” he groans, his voice hoarse and broken from gasping- his cock still hard, leaking precome from the tip, red and desperate to be relieved- the sheets near-soaked, come drying and sticky between his loosely spread thighs.

But still he arches when Athos kneels between his legs, lifts himself up just enough for Athos to press into him with the same ease of access that Aramis had- Athos who leans over him, his lips touched to the corner of d'Artagnan’s mouth, hand slipping between their bodies to wrap lightly around the aching, swollen length of d'Artagnan’s cock.

And d'Artagnan is whimpering against Athos’ mouth by the end of it, Athos shushing him softly, using his free hand to wipe the sweat and hair from d'Artagnan’s brow, holding him as he arches and bends and comes thick and long along his stomach, along Athos’ knuckles.

Afterwards it’s Athos who cleans him up- a warm, damp cloth pressed against his skin with Porthos and Aramis moving to lay on either side of him, both touching him gently along his arms, his thighs, his chest, bringing him down and reorienting him while he falls asleep.


	17. Athos/Porthos/Aramis/d'Artagnan: The One Where d'Art is Exceptional at Blowjobs

d’Artagnan is already a wreck by the time Aramis comes down the easy slide of his opened throat- his lips swollen and red and wet with spit from sucking down the thick length of Aramis’ cock, his hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead and neck, his cheeks flushed and the corners of his mouth feeling stretched-out, with Aramis’ come dripping down his chin.

And there’s barely a moment’s reprieve- just long enough for Athos’ still-gloved finger to press the spill of Aramis back between his parted lips before a fist in his hair turns his head just enough to let the precome-slicked head of Porthos’ cock push into his mouth and fill him up just as Aramis had.   

Aramis crouches down beside him, his hand sliding along the stretch of d’Artagnan’s neck, fingering along his jaw, “I knew you’d be excellent.” he says, drags the words along the shell of d’Artagnan’s ear, speaking quietly, whispering nothing but praise.

And Porthos groans as d’Artagnan’s lips and throat tighten around his cock- d’Artagnan proud of Aramis’ words and smiling as much as he can around the thick width of Porthos before swallowing hard, purposeful, taking him to the hilt until his nose is shoved up against Porthos’ pelvis.

Athos watches the length of Porthos’ cock sink down into the heat of d’Artagnan’s throat- his fingers still against d’Artagnan’s chin, his thumb stroking along the line of the young Musketeer’s lower lip where it’s stretched open to fit Porthos.

And d’Artagnan looks up at Athos from beneath his eyelashes, he reaches up to catch Athos’ wrist and hears the shallow hitch in the older man’s breath when he takes two gloved-fingers into his mouth alongside the already wide stretch of Porthos’ cock- working his jaw to fit them until he’s aching from it.

Athos can feel the thudding pulse of Porthos’ cock against his fingertips along with every suck and every swipe of tongue and he feels the moment that Porthos’ cock jerks and spills into d’Artagnan’s opened mouth.

And when Porthos slips out from between d’Artagnan’s lips, d’Artagnan doesn't stop sucking on Athos’ fingers- he keeps his eyes locked onto Athos’, hollowing out his flushed cheeks to suck harder, dragging his tongue between them until Athos manages to pull them free.

Athos grabs a fistful of d’Artagnan’s shirt and drags the boy up, leaning down just enough to reach his lips, fitting their mouths together with a frustrated growl and sweeping his tongue into the warm, damp, wet heat of d’Artagnan’s mouth- curling himself around the taste of Porthos, and of Aramis on d’Artagnan’s tongue.


	18. Athos/Constance/d'Artagnan: The One Where Constance Pegs Athos

Constance’s hands are trembling, her oil-slicked fingers sinking slow and easy into the tight clenching stretch of the man who is on his hands and knees in front of her- face pressed down against the mattress of her bed.

“That’s right, slow, careful. You’re doing so well,” d’Artagnan says against the shell of her ear, his hands fitted onto the curve of her hips- the obvious lust in his voice making her shiver, “isn't she Athos?”

Athos makes a noise, the sound of it muffled by the sheets, his fingers stretching and clenching into the fabric, breathing slowed and even, relaxing his body to accommodate the hesitant press of Constance’s fingers pushing into him.

He can hear the whisper of d’Artagnan’s words, but not enough to make them out- Constance’s fingers filling him up to her second knuckle now. He catches the sound of her breath hitching just before she twists her wrist and bends her fingers deeper into him, following d’Artagnan’s quiet instruction, and Athos bites down against his own wrist to stop from groaning too loudly.

Constance is blushing fiercely when she turns her head just enough to look at d’Artagnan, “How do I know?” she says, still dragging her fingers in and out of Athos’ hole, slow, curling the tips of them every so often in a way that makes Athos push back against her.

And d’Artagnan slides his hand down her arm before easily slipping his finger in alongside hers- Constance gasps, Athos shoves his hips back harder and d’Artagnan smiles, “Like that.”

.

d’Artagnan has to help fit her into it, laces wrapped around her waist to hold the thick and heavy layered-leather cock in place- the base of it resting up against her cunt, pressing onto her in a way that has her thighs already trembling.

Athos is on his elbows, his head pressed down against the sheets- a thin sheen of sweat already beaded across his forehead, making his hair stick to his skin and he’s still breathing low, shaky breaths, bracing himself for the first push.

The unfamiliar weight of it makes her sides ache just a little bit and she’s not sure how she’s going to manage this- but d’Artagnan’s hands are on her hips again, maneuvering her forward until the head of her oil-dripping leather cock is pressed, teasing, up against Athos’ stretched hole.

d’Artagnan’s fingers are curled around Constance’s, both of them holding and positioning the cock properly, pushing slowly forward with d’Artagnan’s free hand on her waist, holding her steady, guiding her- her own hand against Athos’ hip.

Athos makes a noise, his body easing back against the shove- mouth opened, panting and pushing backwards until he can feel the heat of Constance’s body behind him, her cock sinking into him until he’s so full with it that he’s shaking.

“That’s perfect,” d’Artagnan mouths the words against the curve of Constance’s throat and presses himself up against the back of her thigh, his cock thick and hard and wanting, “now,” he says, his voice dropping low,  the hands on her waist pulling her body back until just the head of her cock remains inside of Athos, “fuck him.”

Constance feels the heat of his words, feels them right down to the wetness of her cunt and her hips push forward, her cock shoving all the way back into the tight heat of Athos’ body in one smooth motion- then back out, in, slow, steady, even thrusts.

Athos is rocked forward, a quiet and desperate groan breaking from between his parted lips, half-muffled into the sheets and d’Artagnan groans- drags the sound of it along Constance’s jaw until his breath is against her ear once more, “That means harder.” he says, his hand climbing up her thigh to feel just how wet she is.

She moans, her thighs shaking and back beginning to ache from the weight of her cock and the drive of her hips, “I don’t know if I can.” she whispers- her hands clenching and tightening on the curve of Athos’ waist, her fingernails pressing into his skin.

And Athos’ hands are fisted into the sheets, his head turned to the side, breathing hitched and breaking but still he manages to weakly groan the words “Do it.”

d’Artagnan’s hands slip under her arms, moving to cover Constance’s on Athos’ waist- his fingertips damp from the wetness between her thighs and holding Athos’ steady as he shoves her forward with a push of his hips.

She gasps, moans, the base of her cock grinding up against her cunt and making her whole body tremble in d’Artagnan’s arms- Athos’ knees slide further apart, his full, heavy cock dragging against the sheets and he muffles the sound that breaks from his throat in the press of the mattress.

And Constance is exhausted, half slumped over Athos’ back, shaking and making low whimpering noises, the roll of her hips slowing- d’Artagnan leans over her, kissing her bare shoulder, her neck, the space just below her ear, “Why don’t you take a break?” he says and she can feel his smile.

She lets him help her, pulling her cock free from Athos’ body and tugging the laces that are tied around her waist open- Constance sighs with the weight suddenly gone and crawls up on the mattress until she’s laying beside Athos, her hand stroking gently down his back.

Athos is facing her when d’Artagnan takes her place, his eyes half lidded and face reddened, lips parted and breathing heavy and she doesn't need to look to know that d’Artagnan is pushing into the tight clench of Athos’ hole- she can tell by the way Athos’ breath hitches and his eyes suddenly squeeze shut.

d’Artagnan leans over Athos, his arm wrapping around Athos’ flushed chest and he pulls him back until Athos’ is on his knees, d’Artagnan’s cock filling him up entirely- his own standing, hard and thick and wet at the tip and Constance can’t take her eyes off of him.

She’s never seen either of them like this- Athos’ whole body trembling, his hair sticking to his forehead, mouth opened, gasping, groaning, his eyes still closed and his hands on d’Artagnan’s arm, grabbing at his wrist and forearm hard enough to bruise while pushing back against the fast, hard, aggressive way that d’Artagnan fucks into him.

And d’Artagnan’s teeth are dragging over Athos’ shoulder, almost breaking the skin with how hard he bites down- his hips shoving forward hard enough that the bed moves beneath them and Constance sits up, moves forward so that she’s kneeling in front of Athos- she puts a hand on his cheek, can’t help but touch his face, his hair, the pounding beat of his heart beneath his chest.

d’Artagnan’s free hand grabs her by her fingers, pulls until their hands are somehow shoved between the tight press of Athos’ and d’Artagnan’s bodies, “I want you to feel this.” he says, just before he helps to push two of Constance’s fingers in alongside his cock.

Constance catches Athos’ eyes when they open, when he curses and jerks back, his body clenching around her fingers with the pulse of d’Artagnan’s cock beating against her fingertips and he reaches forward to tangle his fingers into her hair and drag her close enough to fit their lips together- burying the sound of his orgasm with the heat of her mouth.

She feels the warm, thick spill of him against her bare stomach and moans against his mouth just as d’Artagnan groans and shoves into Athos’ body once more, coming with her fingers still pressed against his cock.


	19. Athos/d'Artagnan: The One Where d'Art is in a Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right, so, d'Artagnan in a dress was a very important time in fandom for me. I love it. 
> 
> There was five fics/snippets/etc about it and Pond was (as always) nice enough to draw something for it -- so, if d'Art in a dress is a thing you're interested in, check [HERE](http://exorin.tumblr.com/post/79020817557/ponderosa121-you-should-draw-dartagnan-jerking)

“I thought I told you no more undercover operations.” Athos says as soon as the door to the cellar swings open- there’s blood on his sword and his sleeves and dirt on his face, and if d'Artagnan didn’t know him so well, he’d be worried.

As it is, he’s more concerned about the way Constance’s dress is ripped from hem to his upper thigh, caked with mud, and the way the laces of her corset have been pulled tight and then rearranged enough to make it seem like he’s got just a rise of breasts peaking out above the top.

He’s very close to explaining that this was entirely Porthos and Aramis’ idea (and that Constance had been far too willing, and happy, to sit him down and colour his cheeks and lips) when Athos turns to look at him, _actually_ look at him.

And that’s when he realizes what he must look like right now-

Dress torn in several places, showing far too much of his bare legs (“Absolutely not d'Artagnan, ladies don’t wear breeches.” she’d said), his hair done up- though loose in several places, falling in curls from where it’s been pulled free of it’s ties and pins in the scuffle that’s brought him down to this cellar… where he is now, with his arms pulled up above his head, wrists tied in overlapping ropes- knotted through iron rings built into the walls.

He can see the way Athos’ eyes darken before the older musketeer even takes a step forward- and then he’s crossing the room, wide strides that have him close, so close to d'Artagnan in a matter of seconds.

There’s a gloved hand on his cheek, thumb rubbing gently and fingers curled around his jaw- his face tilted down (just a little) before Athos’ lips are against his own, parted open and tongue pushing into the heat of d'Artagnan’s mouth.

And d'Artagnan can feel Athos groan- can feel it fill the fraction of space between their bodies and in the way Athos’ other hand has slipped around him to grab his ass and pull their hips together.

He can barely breathe for how desperate Athos’ mouth is- the colour Constance had painted his lips with smudged across both his and Athos’ mouths, his lips reddened and swollen and jaw aching from the press of Athos’ fingertips.

d'Artagnan moans and hitches his legs up, wraps them around Athos’ waist- his skirts tearing further, spreading open around his legs and Constance can lecture him later but right now Athos is fitting himself into the opened space, the press of his cock hard and noticeable and shoved firmly up against d'Artagnan’s own (the cotton of his borrowed drawers so much thinner between them, so much better).

And Athos is whispering words against his mouth, filthy things that d'Artagnan can only catch some of as they’re pressed against his cheek, against the curve of his neck- teeth grazing the skin and making d'Artagnan sigh and arch and jerk his hips forward.

Athos’ hand moves from his face, skims down his body, over the lines of the corset, his palm fitting perfectly along the dip of d'Artagnan’s waist- his fingers between the press of their bodies, fingertips tugging open the laces that hold his drawers up with a practiced ease.

His breath hitches at the first touch of Athos’ leather-gloved hand along his cock, circling around him, fisting the thick, hard length and when he exhales it sounds like Athos’ name.

d'Artagnan’s hands are curled into fists, his knuckles going white, the ropes cutting into his wrists and it doesn’t matter- not when Athos finally works his own breeches open and shoves himself up against d'Artagnan, his fingers not quite spreading all the way to wrap around the width of their cocks fitted together.

But it’s enough.

His palm is wet from the swollen, precome leaking heads of their cocks (and from the way he’d taken a moment to spit into his hand), holding them together while they both jerk forward, their hips moving at alternate paces- d'Artagnan’s eyes closed, his mouth parted open, breathing heavy- the ropes around his wrists creaking with the movements and Athos’ lips on his neck, teeth and tongue and mouth marking him with sucked bruises.

d'Artagnan can’t tell if it’s him cursing, or Athos (in all honesty, it’s probably both of them), his legs slipping from around Athos’ waist and just the shove of Athos’ body keeping him up- his cock throbbing against Athos’ hand, whole body tensing, trembling, shaking as he spills between them.

And it doesn’t take Athos long after that, his hips jerking up, stuttering, coming against d'Artagnan’s stomach in thick, warm lines.

He leans against d'Artagnan, redressing the both of them (or fixing as much of Constance’s dress as he can) before reaching up to cut the ropes from d'Artagnan’s arms, hands, running his fingertips along the welts and kissing each of his wrists- looking guilty.

“I should have asked, are you okay?”

And d'Artagnan just laughs.


	20. Athos/d'Artagnan: The Second One With d'Art in a Dress

**ONE:**

They don’t even make it halfway back to Constance’s homestead before d'Artagnan is shoved up against a crumbling brick wall in a quiet, darkened alleyway- Athos on his knees, one of his hands fisted in d'Artagnan’s skirts, lifting and holding them up ‘round the boy’s waist, his other hand wrapped firm and tight around the quickly hardening base of d'Artagnan’s cock, stroking him slowly.

He’s got his face pressed against the curve of d'Artagnan’s ass, nose and mouth pushed between the spread of d'Artagnan’s cheeks, his breath warm against the clenched muscle of d'Artagnan’s hole, tongue slipping out to press up against him, thick, damp and wet- to circle 'round the tight pucker to taste him.

And d'Artagnan’s fingertips are digging into the dirt and brick, trying to find something to hold onto- blushing fiercely, with his eyes squeezed tightly shut, mouth hanging open, parted, breathing heavy and making low desperate sounding noises.

 

**TWO:**

They’re barely into Constance’s empty house before Athos is pushing d'Artagnan up against the edge of the kitchen table, bending him over at the waist, his hands hoisting the boy’s ripped skirts up to expose his already trembling thighs and the smooth tanned curve of his ass.

And d'Artagnan is so over sensitive that he’s half whimpering, biting down against the back of his wrist by the time Athos’ well-oiled fingers curl into his hole (still damp with spit and loose from the shove of Athos’ tongue in the alley)- Athos leaning over him, leather-covered chest to his back, mouth against his ear and hushed, gentle words pressed to his skin.

One of Athos’ hands on his hip, fingertips digging in just hard enough to leave marks- his other wrapped around the base of his cock, thick and hard, to line himself up with d'Artagnan’s oiled and finger stretched hole.

Athos let’s out a shaky exhale against the curve of d'Artagnan’s neck, sinking into the tight, clenching heat of him in one long, slow push- he can feel d'Artagnan tense briefly, the boy’s entire body trembling, his breath falling out from between his parted lips in a long groan that takes the shape of Athos’ name.

It’s a fast build for both of them, Athos’ hips jerking forward- both his hands fisted into the fabric of d'Artagnan’s skirts to tug him back against the thick length of his cock (occasionally pull hard enough to rip them more, but it doesn’t matter anymore) and d'Artagnan’s fingers curled tightly around the edge of the table, his fingertips pressing in against the wood until it’s creaking underneath the weight of them.

“You have no idea what this does to me.” Athos says, breathing the words along d'Artagnan’s bare neckline with a scratch of his teeth, thrusting hard, rocking into the boy with force enough to tilt the table forward a little.

d'Artagnan’s body shakes with broken moans and low laughter, his cock throbbing and rubbing up against the soft folds of his skirt, “Oh, I have an idea.”

 

**THREE:**

d’Artagnan’s skirts are pushed up to his hips with Athos’ hands fisted into the bunched up fabric around his thin waist- he’s got d’Artagnan on his lap, the boy’s cock standing hard and thick and damp between the heat of their bodies, leaving sticky lines of precome along the leather, still-covering Athos’ chest.

Athos’ rolls his hips up in small teasing circles- his own cock sinking slowly further into the tight heat of d’Artagnan’s wet, stretched hole with every motion, and d’Artagnan looks so wonderful like this- with his head tilted back, neck stretched, cheeks flushed, and mouth opened in a silent gasp as Athos finally fills him up to the hilt.

One of Athos’ hands trails up along the tightly woven lacing at the back of the bodice and it makes d’Artagnan shiver, his exhale a shaky mix of moan and laughter, “You do so love the dresses, don’t you?”

And Athos doesn’t answer he just pulls him closer with his hand pressed between d’Artagnan’s shoulder blades, his mouth moving along d’Artagnan’s collarbone, beard scratching the bare skin there.

He doesn’t have to answer- d’Artagnan knows he loves it by the quick jerk of Athos’ hips and the way his teeth bite down at the juncture of d’Artagnan’s neck to keep himself from making noise- by the pounding pulse of Athos’ cock as he comes thick and warm inside of him.


End file.
